


the place that used to be home

by danickzta



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, don't hate me please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 19:13:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5796499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danickzta/pseuds/danickzta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Octavia's been dead for seven days. It feels like it's been an eternity.</p><p>Lexa doesn’t take the deal, and the lives lost during the Battle of the Mountain are too many to count. Now Octavia’s gone, and Bellamy is all that’s left of what he used to call “home.” Bellamy's grief in the aftermath, told in a series of vignettes. Post-{2.14} AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the place that used to be home

**Author's Note:**

> hope this makes you as sad as it made me!

* * *

_Octavia’s been dead for seven days._

_It feels like it’s been an eternity._

* * *

He remembers feeling relieved. With the acid fog neutralized, with his people saved, with the war _won_ , he remembers stepping out from Dante’s Inferno. He remembers stepping out into the open air and breathing it in, seeing a shock of blonde a little ways away, a shining beacon in the mass of friends and family embracing, frantic eyes searching.

He remembers the way she allowed herself one brief moment of relief as well, her features relaxing, the corners of her lips curving upward, the sound of his name on her lips.

But he also remembers how her face fell. How her joy twisted into a despair so palpable, so thick, he could feel the gravity of it reel him in despite the distance between them. How it all fell apart at once.

He remembers the hollowness in his chest as the nausea burrowed its way into his gut, taking root and digging in with claws as sharp as daggers.

He remembers that, in that moment, he _knew_. And nothing was ever the same again.

* * *

Abby won’t let him see the body. Something about an explosion and blast radius and Indra’s unit and she’s _sorry_ , _but_ _it’s not a good idea_ —

But he stops listening because that can’t be right; Octavia’s not in any Grounder unit. Last he heard, Indra was calling for Lincoln’s head. Octavia wouldn’t work with her. Octavia can’t be in the thick of battle. She might think she’s a samurai, but she’s just starting to learn how to use a sword. She’s just his little sister. She’s just Octavia.

It’s a mistake, isn’t it?

_Isn’t it?_

But the look on Abby’s face, that _miserable, haunted look_ , tells another story that feels like a bullet to the chest, seizes his heart in its clutches and wrings it out until it feels as if it has stopped beating. Until it feels as if it has plummeted to his gut, a lead weight that is dragging him _down, down, down_ until he feels completely hollow and weightless and yet somehow heavy with dread and panic and a chorus that mocks him with a refrain of _nonopleasenotherno_.

And he sees the sympathy in Abby’s eyes, sees how badly she wants him to just take it and run, but to him, it only looks like Jaha’s pity the day they floated his Mother.

Abby raises a hand as if she means to touch his cheek, as if her hands ( _those hands that couldn’t save his sister, what kind of doctor—_ ) can somehow make it all better, but then it falters and stutters to a stop in the loaded space between them. “Bellamy, I need you to trust me. Please.” And in that moment she reminds him so much of her daughter that he almost, _almost_ , lets the tears escape; he almost falls to his knees and buries his head in her torso and wraps his arms around her and sobs himself into oblivion. Almost.

But she’s not Clarke. She doesn’t know him or Octavia or anything about the ground really, so what does she know about Indra and her unit and explosions?

He doesn’t care what she has to say because Octavia’s _right there_ ; they’re separated by only a makeshift tent and Clarke’s waif of a mother and his own fear, freezing him in place and setting his jaw twitching and his shoulders shaking and his lips trembling. She’s _right_ _there_ , but it feels like he’s been set adrift in an ocean of feeling so heavy with his denial and Abby’s pity that he’s both swimming in place and drowning at the same time, stuck in a place of _nonothisisn’trightno_ and _ohgodsomeonepleasehelp_.

He bites down on his cheek until he tastes blood and steels himself. He starts forward, and when Abby makes as if to block him, he shoves her out of the way and stumbles past. He doesn’t have time to worry if he’s been a little too rough before he’s pushing the flap of cloth out of the way and stepping into the tent.

The smell hits him first, barrels through him, really, and it reminds him of the Dropship the day after the ring of fire, of a room full of unwashed bodies, caged alongside their fear and despair and the stench of human filth. And the last tendrils of hope he’s been clinging onto so tightly, so desperately, unfurl from around him. He can feel them let go like they’re tangible things, and he wants to cry out, he wants to snatch them back and wrap them around himself until he’s cocooned in them and nothing, no horrible smell, no whispered platitudes, can reach him.

He wants to, but he can’t. He can’t turn away and hide because _she’s right there_ , so he raises his eyes from the ground to look—

He sees what’s left of the body.

And then he staggers out of the tent and vomits into the bushes.

* * *

First comes Indra.

He’s sitting outside of the tent where they keep the injured ( _hoping that maybe, just maybe, he’ll catch a glimpse of blonde and_ she’ll _come out, because he needs someone, anyone—_ ) when Indra is suddenly standing before him.

He looks up at her through wet lashes and the sight of her, uninjured and whole and safe when Octavia _isn’t_ , fuels the fire that has been burning inside of him, slowly growing, feeding on his grief and slipping out of his control.

Indra appraises him, steely gaze unwavering as she looks him up and down. She seems as steady as a mountain despite the current of chaos that is whipping by around them, despite the turmoil that he feels bubbling within. Only the fists coiled at her sides reveal that she feels ( _felt_ ) something, anything, for his sister.

Indra tilts her chin up and declares, “She died a warrior’s death.”

Like that’s supposed to mean something to him. Like that’s supposed to erase the fact that Indra dragged her into this, that Octavia wouldn’t have had any part of this, wouldn’t be _not here_ if it weren’t for her.

And all of a sudden, he’s nose to nose with Indra, grabbing her by the collar and snarling in her face, the lines blurring between what he’s thinking and what he’s saying and a torrent of anger and agony ripping through his body. Everything is red, and there’s a rushing in his ears and adrenaline surging through him; he can barely think straight and he knows that this is a lethal mix, that this can only end in disaster, _he knows_ , but he just can’t seem to stop himself. He barely registers the physical pain ( _how can he when everything else just hurts so_ much _—_ ) when his back slams into the ground, when he’s gaping into a face that he now realizes is marred by fury and a guilt that he didn’t see before, blinded by his own misery as he is.

Indra’s breathing heavily, nostrils flaring, shoulders heaving as she releases his wrist ( _he thinks it’s sprained, he can’t really tell_ ) and glares him down. “Do not dishonor her memory with weakness,” she snaps in a way that sounds less like a reprimand and more like a plea.

And then she’s just gone.

And he’s reminded of his own words ( _down here, weakness is death_ ), a reminder of his mother that is both welcome and uninvited at the same time. A reminder of all he has lost and all he will never get back.

The knowledge of it presses down on him, and it feels like a physical thing, like an immovable force of nature, like an inevitable fact of _life_ that, no matter how hard he tries, he can’t budge. He can’t find the strength to lift himself from the ground, and he feels as crippled as Atom the day he lay dying in the woods. So he lies there, for how long he doesn’t know, until the last of his fury ebbs, until numbness replaces the weight of all that he _knows_ to be true and settles over him like a murky film.  Until the clamor of people rushing around him, the sensation of dirt beneath his skin, fades, until all he can hear is a chorus of _i won’t let anything bad happen to you_ taunting him in his ears.

* * *

He doesn’t know how he got here, but now he’s shrouded in shadow on the outskirts of camp. It’s nighttime, and the Grounders and his people have gone their separate ways ( _through his grief-filled haze, he can tell that they’re headed back to Camp Jaha_ ). His knees are tucked up to his chest, head cradled in his hands, and he’s sneaking bitter glances at the loved ones sharing moonshine and swapping stories by the fire.

He’s hiding, from _what_ ( _or rather,_ who), he doesn’t want to admit.

So he tells himself that he doesn’t want anyone to see him like this, broken and useless and miserable and spiteful as he is. He doesn’t want their pity. He doesn’t want to reminisce about dead parents, lovers, friends, about _needing to move on_ and who has it worse.

Because they can never understand; none of them have ever had a sibling before. He and his sister are (were, _he reminds himself_ ) the only ones. And now _he_ is the only one.

His fingers gouge deeper into his skull. He doesn’t even know who he is anymore, without his better half ( _without Octavia,_ oh god _without Octavia_ ), and he can feel himself unraveling, can feel himself losing control.

Not the kind of control he so desperately sought when they first landed on the ground, when he was only out for himself and his sis— When control meant power ( _when it meant dominance_ ). Now, control means not falling apart, not breaking down in the face of this nightmare. In the face of never hearing anyone call him “Bell” ever again.

He’s about to slam his fists into a tree, to do what he does best when he feels powerless ( _he knows that violence is all he’s good for_ ), but then he looks up and he sees _her_ emerge from a tent in the distance.

She looks exhausted: face gaunt, posture slumped, lips sunk into a permanent frown. But despite the fact that she looks as tired, as haggard as he’s ever seen her, Clarke doesn’t take a seat by the fire, doesn’t let her hair down and revel in what she’s accomplished ( _because without her, there would’ve been no war, no Grounder alliance, no “victory,” and Octavia would still be—_ ) He puts a stop to that train of thought, berates himself for even thinking it.

It’s not her fault, _it’s not_.

But he just feels so disoriented, so unhinged, that he can barely fit the pieces of the puzzle together; nothing is making sense and he doesn’t know how to turn all of these feelings off and it’s just so _frustrating_ —

He’s about to lurch back into camp, to wrap her in his arms and apologize for even thinking it, ( _for her, for himself, for Octavia, he’s not sure—_ ), to finally admit that his strength alone is no longer enough to support him.

But then he sees that her posture is straightening and she’s steeling herself, starting to scan the crowd.

His resolve crumbles into rubble at his feet, and he collapses back to the ground. He pulls the leather jacket he used to wear before Mount Weather more tightly around himself ( _he doesn’t quite know how, but after Indra left, after he finally broke out of his stupor, he found it folded neatly at his side)_ and does his best to blend into the shadows around him.

The sight of her pushing through the fatigue, looking so much like how she looked before this all began ( _so ready to ignore herself for the sake of others_ ), rekindles the pit of despair in his chest, and he suddenly knows that he’s not ready to face her yet. He’s not ready for her to fix him with that steely gaze, for her to tell him that that he needs to pull through this because they need him, that she _can’t lose him too_.

He’s not ready for her forgiveness.

Because she’ll tell him that it’s not his fault, that _he’s not a murderer._ ( _but doesn’t she see? he is. because maybe if he had disabled the fog a little earlier, if he had just tried a little harder, if he had just been there—_ )

He’s just not ready.

So he shrinks back until he can barely make out his own hands in the dark. And he waits. He waits while she flits through camp, while she peers into their makeshift homes and scours the faces of the crowd. He waits until she gives up and resigns herself back to her tent.

And when the moon finally reaches its peak, when the fires are extinguished and everyone leaves, when the wind no longer carries the current of comfortable conversation and unspoken relief, he stands.

And then he staggers toward his empty tent.

* * *

He wakes up with Octavia’s name on his lips in the middle of the night.

He’s covered in a cold sweat, and chills snake their way up his spine, raising goose bumps on his flesh and setting his teeth chattering to the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

He dreamed of the Unity Day masquerade ball, of the day everything went to shit.

He closes his eyes and sees the dream, the memory, as clear as if it had happened yesterday.

But instead of his Mother getting floated, it’s his sister. Octavia’s standing at the other end of the hall, and she just looks so _young_ , so like how he wishes things could still be, that for a moment, it’s like he’s back on the Ark again, a man ( _no, a_ boy) who wanted nothing more than to see his sister truly _live_.

But no matter how hard he struggles against the guards restraining him, he can do nothing but watch as they close the doors to the airlock, as Shumway pushes the button, as Octavia disappears into the black.

As she’s just gone.

He can hear his Mother wailing behind him, can hear her heaving sobs and how desperately she’s trying to catch her breath, and it feels like the sound is impaling him. But then he realizes that it’s not his Mother, it’s _him_ , because now she’s gone too, and so are the guards and Jaha and Shumway, and now he’s all alone, surrounded by nothing but forbidding steel walls and the chronic machine hum of a ship on its last legs.

He knows that it’s a dream, but it just feels so _real_.

He opens his eyes and tries to slow his breathing, to calm his restless nerves as he turns to the cot at his side to check on Octavia, to make sure he didn’t wake her, to reassure himself that she’s more than a cold body floating through space.

But then he sees the empty sheets, and he _remembers_.

He doesn’t fall asleep again.

* * *

He’s loitering in a crowd of people at the center of their makeshift camp, the sun beating down on his face and the wind carrying the stench of the tent full of bodies past him.

He wants to gag.

But he can’t because he’s packed in on all sides by faces he vaguely recognizes, because Kane’s clearing a circle around himself and addressing them all, hands clasped behind his back. As he talks, Bellamy tunes him out. He’s been trying so hard to keep it together, to try and pretend that everything’s fine—

Some part of him hears Kane say something about the difference between winning a battle and winning a war, about needing to keep alert, to stay strong. But he doesn’t really care and now he’s shrugging out of his jacket and pushing his way to the front of the group.

Kane appraises him, and he looks like he wants to put his hand on Bellamy’s shoulder, to talk him down. But he only purses his lips and nods his head, making room for Bellamy to pass.

As Bellamy elbows past him, steps into a ring full of people lining up across from each other, lowering themselves into sparring stances, he sees that Miller is there, and so is Monroe. He stalks over to them, cracking his knuckles and steeling his nerves, ignoring the wary glances they shoot his way.

He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “You’re up, Miller.”

Miller and Monroe only exchange a nod, and then Miller takes a step forward, fixing him with a long look ( _that’s full of pity, too much pity, and suddenly Bellamy feels even closer to breaking point_ —).

“You got something to say?”

Miller grimaces. “Hey, man. I’m sorry about your—“

“Just shut up and fight,” Bellamy snaps.

Miller opens his mouth to argue, but he must see something in Bellamy’s expression because he only nods his head and takes a reluctant step forward. Bellamy shifts into position, tightens his hands into fists, but then he sees movement over Monroe’s shoulder, and he bares his teeth.

Lincoln.

( _why isn’t he with the Grounders, why is he still_ here?)

He was _there_. He was _there_ and he didn’t protect her and now she’s—

He turns his rage toward Lincoln, surges forward with a flurry of punches and shoves and throws, all fury and no finesse. But Lincoln just dances around him, blocks each attack with an ease that Bellamy used to be envious of ( _now it’s only frustrating, mocking_ ).  He grabs Bellamy’s wrists and wrestles him to a stop, tries to get his attention, but Bellamy can’t meet his eyes, _he can’t_. Because he’s afraid of what he’ll see there. He’s afraid he’ll see a mirror of himself.

So he jerks out of his grip, tries to slam his shoulder into Lincoln’s chest, but then Lincoln is kicking his legs out from under him, and Bellamy lands in a heap in the dirt.

Bellamy’s about to jump back to his feet, go for round two, but this time he can’t avoid it and he sees the ( _heartbroken_ , _tormented_ ) look on Lincoln’s face. And he remembers whose fault it really is ( _his own, dammit_ ). All of his anger fizzles out and now all he feels is hollow. Defeated. ( _in more ways than one._ )

Lincoln offers him a hand and, when Bellamy doesn’t respond, grabs his arm and pulls him to his feet, supporting him when Bellamy’s ankles buckle and he stumbles backward. He doesn’t fight him this time, only grimaces at the new aches and pains as Lincoln leads him away from the sparring ring. He deposits Bellamy underneath a tree and then collapses to the ground beside him, face turned toward the sky.

For a moment, they sit there in silence, and Bellamy’s not sure whose sorrow is more palpable.

“Octavia once told me, _ge smak daun, gyon op nodotaim_ ,” Lincoln finally says, picking up a twig and twirling it between his fingers. “She never gave up. And neither should we.”

He sounds certain, sure of himself, but the misery in his eyes tells another story that Bellamy knows all too well. Tells a story that Bellamy’s been reading since the day Octavia first told him _i wanna see the Ark, Bell. take me out the door._

Lincoln angles the stick toward the ground, moves it back and forth, up and down, sketching lines in the mud.

“Your sister wouldn’t want this for us. She was always so—so free,” he says.

Bellamy wants to sneer at him, but he just feels so barren that his voice only comes out a whisper. “Well she’s not free now, is she?”

Lincoln stiffens at his side. “You’re wrong. She is,” he says, driving the stick harder into the ground. “I’m glad this world didn’t get the chance to turn her into a monster. Not like us. She was one of the good ones.”

His words hit home, feel like another punch to the gut, and even though they’re true ( _they’re definitely true_ ), they don’t make Bellamy ( _either of them_ ) feel better.

Lincoln continues to dig furrows into the ground, his movements becoming rougher, less controlled as time passes. Eventually, he drops the twig and folds his arms over his knees, staring off into the distance.

It takes him a moment, but Bellamy finally looks down, his eyes traveling to the discarded branch.

He sees Octavia’s face in the dirt.

When the tears threaten to fall, he gets up and staggers away.

* * *

He limps toward the med tent, and when he brushes his way inside, it’s mercifully empty. He stumbles over to a cot and buries his head in his hands, fisting his hair in his fingers.

Since he escaped the Mountain, since he saved 44 of his people, since he _wasn’t here to protect her_ , he’s been running on a cocktail of fumes and misery and a disbelief that he wishes could make him forget, could make him numb to _everything_ just as well as a bottle of moonshine could.

But it can’t. And violence is about as good of a distraction as it was back at the Dropship.

He’s about to curl up under the sheets, wallow in his solitude until Abby comes back ( _and he can ask if she thinks his sister suffered_ ), but then there’s a rustling. The flaps of the tent’s entrance are separating, and a blur of blonde and blue is stepping inside.

Clarke.

She looks as exhausted as she did last night. Worse, even. Bags shadow her eyes and he’s just now realizing that there are bruises ringing her neck, blood in her hairline, white bandages peeking out of her shirt.

When she first notices him, her expression reminds him of the day she ran into his arms and he asked her how many were with her. ( _none._ ) But then the line of her shoulders is relaxing, and his name leaves her lips on an exhale.

“Bellamy.”

And then she’s moving toward him, each faltering step seeking his permission, unraveling the tension between them.

At first, he’s relieved that she’s here, _she’s finally here_. All he wants to do is race toward her, even if he’s afraid that his legs are too weak to support him. But then he sees that she’s wearing some sort of Grounder uniform, covered in leather straps and buckles and metal, and it reminds him of what Octavia was wearing when he shoved past Abby and went into that tent and _saw_ her—

Bellamy’s jaw twitches. Where _was_ she? Where was she when he _needed_ her? When one of the only two people that mattered—

A distant part of him knows that he’s being irrational, that whenever Clarke came looking, he cowered, let his grief get the best of him. But he can’t help it, not when his tattered logic is tied so closely to his resentment toward her for sending him into the Mountain all those weeks ago, her brokering a deal with the Grounders in the first place. The knowledge of how she was at the center of it all, how a single domino set the entire war ( _set his sister’s_ death) in motion, is an ache that just won’t go away.

So he spits the words out at her like an accusation ( _that he immediately wishes he could snatch back, bury until he forgets he ever thought them_ ).

“Nice of you to show up.”

Clarke stutters to a stop two beds away and the look on her face feels like another battering ram to his chest. She can’t quite meet his eyes, just looks somewhere over his shoulder. “I—I’m sorry. There’s no excuse. I should have been here.” Her hands tremble at her sides. “I’m so sorry. For everything, Bellamy.”

Bellamy sees the guilt, the shame, playing across her features, and it makes him sick that he can’t stop blaming everyone and everything around him. Not when he knows that, ultimately, it was _his_ fault. But he doesn’t have time to arrange his glare into something less hostile before she’s wringing her hands and her words are cutting a path through the stillness of the room.

“Do you want me to go?”

( _oh god please don’t._ )

His voice comes out a strangled moan. “No, I’m—I didn’t mean it. Clarke, I didn’t mean it. I’m just such a mess right now, I don’t—” He cuts off. He wants to take his vulnerability, his gaping wounds, and run back to the outskirts of camp, Mount Weather, _anywhere but here_. He doesn’t want to face it.

But then she’s making up the space between them and, as she nears him, as he gets pulled into her gravity all over again ( _he can never seem to escape it_ ), he sees the look in her eyes and he can’t run away from it, can’t hold back any longer ( _because one look, and she knows; she always seems to_ know). Because it’s _Clarke_.

Everything comes tumbling out in a rush of words that taste like gravel in his throat. “I’m just—I’m just… so fucking scared, Clarke. What am I supposed to do? I don’t—I don’t know how to live without her.” And he casts his eyes downward.

He thinks that he’s never been so honest in his life. He remembers life on the Ark after Octavia was arrested, after his Mother was executed for the crime of having a heart big enough to care for two. He remembers how he felt so empty, so aimless. So alone.  He would have gladly traded his cadet badge, himself, _anything_ , to do it all again, to never go to that stupid dance. Because while Clarke may have spent a year in solitary in the SkyBox, he spent a year in solitary in Section 17, in a room full of painful reminders of a life he thought he’d never get back ( _of a life he never_ did _get back_ ).

He feels a silent tear coursing down his cheek and he whips his arm up to scrub it away because _he doesn’t deserve to cry, dammit, he doesn’t deserve it_.

( _what did he do to deserve_ this _?_ )

But more keep coming, and no matter how frantically he rubs, they just won’t stop. He’s aware that his breathing is picking up, coming out harsher and harsher, and now he’s gasping and he feels like he’s choking and he just feels so exposed—

Clarke grabs his wrist and gently tugs his arm away.

“Stop it,” she whispers. “You don’t have to hold back in front of me.”

But he just shakes his head. “I—I can’t afford to be weak.” _Not in front of everybody. Not in front of_ you.

When she doesn’t respond, he wonders if she agrees. He wonders if she feels the same way she felt when she sent him off to die in Mount Weather ( _because that’s what it was, a suicide mission_ ), when she told him that _it was worth the risk_.

But then she’s letting his wrist go and she’s inching closer and she’s meeting his gaze as she says, “No—Bellamy. Look at me. Bellamy.”

She reaches her arms out until her palms are hovering just above his cheeks, and when he doesn’t shrink back, they land, her thumbs wiping wetness away and her fingers brushing hair back from his eyes. And even though her voice is watery, even though her lower lip is wobbling, her hands are as steady as they’ve ever been.

“It’s not weakness. Bellamy, _love_ isn’t weakness.”

It takes him a moment ( _he’s finding it hard to focus and her words aren’t making any sense; everything inside of him is_ screaming _that she’s_ wrong _, she_ has _to be_ ), but then he’s swallowing the lump in his throat and looking up at her through wet lashes.

He sees the surety in her eyes, and it’s like ( _one of the_ ) yawning pits inside of him is finally closing up and she’s the lifeline that’s extending herself to him, pulling him back from the brink, from the dissipating black. So he brings shaking hands up until the tips of his fingers are dangling from her wrists, afraid to fully accept the safety in her words.

“I should’ve been there,” he says. “How can she ever forgive me?”

Clarke scoots forward again and runs her thumbs over the corners of his lips, the scrapes and bruises the battle carved into his skin. “This is not your fault. It’s _not_ ,” she tells him. “You can’t torture yourself with what-ifs. She—Octavia wouldn’t want that.” She takes a deep breath and then layers her voice with conviction. “She’d want you to _live_.”

( _like she barely got the chance to._ )

Suddenly, all Bellamy wants to do is turn his face away and bury it in his hands, but then Clarke’s fingers are smoothing his hair back from his forehead, clearing his vision. And all at once, he feels Clarke’s understanding in the firmness ( _gentleness_ ) of her grip, sees it in the determined set to her jaw, in the steadiness of her gaze, and it’s so different from her Mother’s pity, from Indra’s harsh attempts at camaraderie, that he can’t think of anyone he’d want besides Clarke to help erase his self-loathing, his lingering anger ( _but not his heartache; that will never go away_ ). And he knows it’s selfish of him, that Clarke’s been grieving since the day a twelve-year-old girl stabbed her best friend in the neck ( _he doesn’t know how she even has any compassion left to give_ ), but Bellamy sees the refuge she’s offering him, and it seems like salvation.

“I—I needed you… I need you, Clarke.”

Her eyes soften. “I’m right here.”

And then he pulls her hands backward until they’re wrapped around his neck. He lowers his forehead to her shoulder and balls his fists into the back of her shirt, clinging on for dear life.   _It’s Clarke_ , he tells himself. _It’s Clarke_.

And when she folds him into her arms, when she mumbles his name into his ear, he finally allows the sobs to wrack his body, allows all of the anger, all of the misery and pain and fear, to flee the confines of his broken soul. He gasps for air and trails tears on her sleeve and weeps and weeps until he’s sure the entire camp can hear him coming undone. Until they feel his loss as tangibly as he does.

But Clarke doesn’t shush him, just holds him. And he thinks that she might be crying too.

He doesn’t know why he didn’t do this before, why he was so afraid to admit just how much he’s suffering, just how much he _needs_ someone. But he’s never let _anyone_ see him like this. Ever since he helped his Mother pry that board from the floor, ever since the day his entire world changed ( _augustus had a sister_ ), he’s pushed down his problems, he’s shouldered his own burdens in favor of another’s.

( _my sister, my responsibility._ )

But now he realizes that ( _for a while now_ ) there’s been more than one anchor mooring him in place. And even though one of them is gone now, he still has one left.

So he lets her hold him until his sobs finally die down, until they taper off into whimpers and he just feels so tired, so _used up_ , that all he wants to do is pull Clarke down into the cot and curl into her side and sleep and sleep until everything is a distant nightmare.

But he doesn’t do that. He doesn’t lose himself and _give up_ , because the feel of Clarke’s warm body beneath his palms, her hair tickling at his chin, the way she’s mumbling soft assurances into his neck ( _bellamyi’msorryit’sokayyou’renotaloneyou'reokay_ ) reminds him that he won’t have to deal with this, _with Octavia never coming back_ , by himself. Because, be it on the Ark, back at the Dropship, during the war, they’ve all lost someone. So he can’t crumple into a pile of broken, blubbering parts on the ground at his feet. Because there are people who need him just as much as he needs them.

He heaves in a deep breath, makes sure the last of his tears have fallen, and slowly ( _reluctantly_ ) releases Clarke ( _but she doesn’t let go of him; her palms are still on his cheeks, wiping away the last of the wetness and tracing patterns with the pads of her thumbs_ ). He takes another moment to revel in the comfort of this moment, and then he lowers her hands from his face and covers them with his own.

“Can you—can you tell me about her? About—about how she was after I left?”

Clarke watches the interlacing of their fingers for a moment, the way they fit so comfortably together ( _he thinks that maybe she’s not ready yet, that she’s trying to catch her breath too_ ), but then she’s looking back up at him, the corners of her lips quirking up in the parody of a smile. “There’s a lot to tell.”

And then she talks. She talks about the day Octavia got her ass kicked at Camp Jaha. She talks about her practicing Trigedasleng with Lincoln in their few stolen moments alone. About her never leaving the radio’s side, anxiously waiting for Bellamy to radio in. About her having a newfound purpose. About her finally feeling accepted.

And even though it’s a far cry from the girl who jumped out of the Dropship and hollered at the sky all those weeks ago ( _we’re back, bitches_ ), the courage, the fearlessness behind her actions just sounds so much like Octavia, _like his little sister_ , that if unshed tears weren’t still clogging his throat, he’d laugh.

So he tightens his grip on Clarke and listens, lets her words lull him until the tension in his body dissolves and the unknown, the what-ifs, are replaced with images of an Octavia he never got a chance to meet ( _but one he’s happy got a chance to finally_ live _all the same_ ).

* * *

TonDC looks the same as it did when he and Lincoln left for the Mountain all those weeks ago. Except, this time, instead of angry men and women screaming in condemnation, calling for the end to the truce with the Sky People, now there is only the heaviness of despair, accompanied by murmurs of _yu gonplei ste odon_ , by strangled voices and muffled sobs.

Lincoln tells him that it’s tradition, that the only way the souls of the fallen can find peace is through fire, through a ceremony of remembrance.  He tells him that everyone who’s lost someone gets a chance at the pyre. But Bellamy finds that the thought of Octavia being laid to rest with the Grounders instead of with her people doesn’t bother him, even though he feels like it should. Because they were never really her people to begin with, were they?

So he simply stands there, eyes unfocused as the flames lick higher and higher, as the smell of rotting bodies is slowly replaced with burnt pine and cedar.

It reminds him of the day they burned Finn, when Clarke took hold of the torch and set the pile alight. Except this time, they’re all there: Jasper, Monty, Miller, Raven. Clarke.

She slips her hand into his, and when she squeezes, he stops trembling.

He takes his eyes off of the fire for a moment and looks down at her. This time, he’s not surprised that all of his lingering resentment, his anger, is gone. All that remains is gratitude ( _that she was there for him, that she’s_ still here). Ever since that day she told him he wasn’t a monster, that she _needed him_ , she’s been his pillar, stalwart in the face of everything they’ve been through. She gives him strength, the courage to soldier on. And that’s not going away any time soon.

On his other side is Lincoln, hands clasped behind his back, not even trying to hide his tears. And when Bellamy looks at him, he no longer sees the enemy because he knows that there will always be a piece of Octavia in Lincoln. And he’s grateful for that too.

He stands there, surrounded by the people that know him and his sister best, and watches the procession, watches as some of the mourners break down and wail at the sky, as others stand stoic in their grief.

He watches as Indra nods at him from across the pyre and then takes her turn with the torch. As she lowers the flame, she says something in Trigedasleng loud enough to hear, but impossible for Bellamy to understand. It takes a moment ( _Lincoln looks like he’s trying to hold back a sob, like he’s choked with sudden emotion_ ), but he translates it all the same.

“You’re one of us. Always.”

But to Bellamy, the words don’t mean that she belonged to Trikru; they mean something entirely different. To him, it doesn’t really matter who Octavia was. A Grounder, an Arker, one of the 100: none of those words can define her. Because, no matter what, she was a Blake. And nothing, not time, not distance, not _death_ , will ever change that.

When Indra steps away and the next person takes her place, Bellamy wonders what cruel twist of fate has left him here, alone, when the whole reason he came down in the first place was to protect her. But he supposes she didn’t really need his protecting. Because it’s like Lincoln said: _she was already strong._

So he takes a deep breath. He feels as light as he’s felt in days, and he’s not afraid to squeeze back when Clarke tightens her grip on his hand. She doesn’t smile ( _and he’s glad for that_ ); she just looks at him in that way that she does, in that way that tells him she can read everything his expression is saying.

And he knows that no matter what happens next, he won’t be alone. They’ll have each other; they’ll have the rest of the 100, and they’ll brave tomorrow together. And one day, that will have to be good enough.

So he waits his turn, stands rigid as, one by one, those left behind take hold of the torch and pay respect to those that will never wake again. And as he watches one hand replace the next, the unrelenting chorus of _iwon’tletanythingbadhappentoyouipromiseipromiseipromise_ starts to fade, and in its place, he can hear his sister’s voice.

And despite the bodies burning in front of him, despite the fact that everything’s going to change, that nothing will ever be the same again, his eyes dance from Lincoln to Raven to Jasper to Monty, to _Clarke_ , and he echoes it.

“I am not afraid.”

* * *

  _Octavia’s been dead for seven days._

_It’ll never stop feeling like it’s been an eternity, but at least he’s not alone._

* * *

 

**_{fin.}_ **


End file.
